A Dangerous Game
by Tonight.At.Noon
Summary: Over the years, killing has become a part of him. His lungs are lined with gun powder, his skin stained with blood. Why, then, when he meets her, does he find himself unable to pull the trigger? [AU/AH]
**A/N:** I simply adore the idea of these two, and I have been working on this for quite some time. However, because of my incredibly busy schedule, and my impending trip to my native land for six weeks this summer, I'm not sure how often I will be able to update the story. I _can_ tell you that there will be between 3 and 4 chapters, depending on whether or not I decide to include some kind of epilogue.

Be gentle with me, please. I've never written for these two before, and clearly have not written much FanFiction in general. Because there isn't much known about Darcy Lewis, I made a bunch of stuff up. Sorry if this, or the way I write Loki, offends you in any way.

Currently, this is rated T, but that may change if I feel like adding something a little more adult-friendly. We'll see.

 **DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING. This was written purely for fun.**

Enjoy.

* * *

 **A Dangerous Game | Distractions**

* * *

For as long as he can remember, he has always worn a spot of green. Even when on the job. He doesn't know why. His therapist brother would say it has something to do with their father abandoning them as children soon after their mother died, but he does not believe in the psycho-babble. But whatever the reason, he cannot go outside without some shade of green adorning some part of his clothing. And in the dark, as heat spills from the lifeless body draped in a heap on the ground of a parking garage somewhere in the middle of DC, he can see a small drop of blood on the deep green laces he ties through his boots.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks to himself as he steps into the shadows of the garage, away from the billionaire playboy he as just put a bullet through. He crouches down to inspect the drying the stain. It slowly turns a deep maroon before his eyes. _That'll be hell to wash out._

From a distance, Loki can hear footsteps approaching. They sound like they come from expensive women's footwear— _click clack, click clack_. He must get out of there fast, but he has always enjoyed this part of the job. Watching as somebody discovers his target as they lie cold and bloodless on the ground.

He would like to know what his brother would say about _that_.

Definitely nothing good.

A scream echoes through the parking garage, but Loki's vibrating mobile phone distracts him from the scene unfolding in front of him. Standing, the man in black runs silently from the garage. He pulls his phone out only when he is sure he is safe and stares at the glowing screen.

Unknown number.

A client.

He picks up, saying nothing. He always lets potential clients talk first.

"Is this Mischief?"

Whoever is on the other line sounds scared. His throat is shaking, rattling Loki's ears.

Loki says nothing still. There is a word they must say before he can talk. A code. Those who require his services know without uttering this word, they have no chance.

"Oh, yes," the man—he is old, Loki can tell—says heavily, coughing. There is even a shake to his cough. "Tesseract."

The word washes over Loki in the form of adrenaline. The stuff spikes his blood, pumping through him as his heart picks up speed. He loves this part—the proposal, the anxious man asking him to commit a horrendous crime to preserve his own life. It is the irony of humanity Loki has adored since childhood: You cannot save someone without killing another.

"Speak," Loki orders, his English accent flowing through the receiver as sirens roar overhead. He must get of there before talks of a shadowy figure fleeing the crime scene are stapled across the newspapers in the morning. He does not need that kind of publicity.

The man talks to him as he makes his escape. "My opponent for office needs to go. I have no chance at winning with him against me. I need this election."

"Name."

The man on the other end seems confused, but Loki requires nothing more than a target. It is not his job to be given reason. Their requests do not need to be justified by foul deeds. Loki does not care.

"Wesley Lewis," he says finally, stuttering.

Loki smiles up at the midnight sky glowing red and blue and white. He has got a new assignment.

He smiles into the phone. "Excellent."

* * *

Wesley Lewis is running for mayor in a small town in New Mexico. He is sixty-years-old, widowed, and all in all almost as diabolical as Loki. Which is saying something. He owns a house in California bought with bribe money. Owns one dog Loki has decided Lewis doesn't really like. And a daughter. Wesley Lewis has a daughter. 24, studying to get her criminology degree at the University of New Mexico. Long brown hair, blue eyes, big lips. Loki's nightmare.

He has been watching the old politician already for three complete days. Usually he would have pounced by now, stalking rarely lasts this long—two days at the most. But this is a difficult case. Typically the men and women he hunts are lonely sods who have alienated their friends and family despite the front they provide the press and public.

Lewis has this daughter. She keeps by his side whenever he isn't working, and when he is working somebody is constantly with him. He is never by himself. Never vulnerable.

This makes Loki's job difficult, and he cannot back down—he has already been paid.

Today is day four. His employer is growing restless, anxious. The elections are soon. If he runs against Lewis, he will surely lose. And Loki will lose his head.

Eye for an eye. The path Loki has chosen is littered with stories of assassins who have failed to complete their job. These types of stories never come with happy endings. But then, what story, no matter its kind, has a truly happy ending?

The tall man, who is ghostly pale in the New Mexican sunshine and dressed in all black excluding the green-banded watch coiled around his thin wrist, stands by himself outside Wesley Lewis's office building. He is growing impatient. Time is running out. For both him and the mayoral candidate.

He wonders briefly how his daughter will react to her father's death. With tears? Anger? Depression? He has seen it all. Watched from a distance the sorrow that effects the forgotten family of the world's most ferocious, underground criminals.

Of course, they do not truly miss the relative or friend they have lost. They only miss the familiarity. Merely the _idea_ of the person they, in actuality, hated. The image of them they had created in their heads. Nobody can hate a dead man in good conscience. It isn't what humans have deemed acceptable. His brother can talk for days all about that.

Darcy Lewis. He isn't sure exactly how she will respond. The only thing he knows is how genuine her reaction will be. Unlike the others he has been assigned that have a family, Lewis and his daughter are close. Wesley raised her by himself, brought her up to be an upstanding woman. How funny, Loki thinks to himself, that because of her father's influence she has decided to go into law enforcement.

They are a family that loves. Wesley may be a foul man, but he is a caring father.

Taking him from his daughter will destroy her. The bullet Loki will eventually aim through his heart will, however metaphorically, pierce her skin too.

Shaking his head, Loki runs a hand through his wild, dark hair, unsure of what is happening. Is he doubting his ability to complete this job? All because this girl might be a tad bit sad her father isn't there anymore to make the world a bad place?

Loki knows how the mind works. He knows humans and how they operate. If his big brother taught him anything, it was how to dissect a person's brain. And if being a sociopath taught him anything, it is that humans care for nothing but themselves. She will forget the grief brought on by her father's demise soon enough. There is no reason for his hesitation.

Loki paces around for a little bit, hands pulling at his hair until he's sure he is now bald. He has never dealt with these kinds of doubts before. They are unnerving him.

He removes his fingers from his scalp and runs them instead over the inside of his black coat where he can feel the outline of his gun. Knowing it is there brings him a sense of calm. He slows his pacing and turns abruptly. It is time to work out a plan to rid the world of Wesley Lewis.

Loki does not get two feet before he crashes into somebody, knocking them to the ground. Papers fly in the air, scattering through the wind.

Caught off guard, Loki does not get time to run before the person he bashed into grabs his arm.

"God, you ass. Aren't you going to help me up?"

He recognises the voice, which startles him immensely. He knows no women other than his brother's wife, and this is surely not Jane. Looking down, he realises suddenly why the voice sounds familiar. He has heard it several times through the bugs he placed in Wesley's house.

Darcy Lewis.

This is exactly what he doesn't need.

"Well?" She has one of her eyebrows cocked in annoyance and expectancy, and Loki is caught, once again, entirely off guard.

She is still holding his arm, and silently—because he is bewildered and he has a difficult time articulating sentences when he is bewildered, if only because he has never before been bewildered—he lifts her off of the ground. Once she is standing, she removes her hand from his forearm and brushes the New Mexican orange dust from her dark jeans and red top.

She steps back and appraises Loki, blue eyes unreadable. He does not understand why he has yet to flee. He is compromising himself by staying, but he cannot force his feet to move. Inside he is screaming.

"So, Mr. Tall Dark and Moderately Attractive, would you so kindly help me pick up all of the pieces of paper you forced me to drop? It's the least you can do." Again, she does not ask so much as demand his assistance.

It is almost thrilling hearing a woman order him around, but years of being his own boss make it impossible to take the girl seriously.

"I already helped you up," he says. "I've done my duty. Repented for my crime."

Darcy laughs. It's bitter and smacks him hard across the face. "I don't know how they do it in England, or whatever _planet_ you're from, but over here we actually help the people we shove to the ground."

Now it is Loki's turn to laugh, but he covers it smoothly with a light cough. Americans are no different from the rest of the world. They don't help the people they throw around. They kick them to keep them on the floor.

"And I told you," he explains, "I helped you up."

Darcy does something dangerous. She pokes his chest. He has killed for less. "Yeah, well, I got news for ya buddy, I don't give a fuck. Help me collect those papers. They're for my dad."

At the mention of Wesley Lewis, Loki forgets about how heavy his gun feels trapped inside his coat and rushes to help Darcy. He runs into traffic to gather the runaway sheets until he can see no more, then hands them in a messy pile to the girl.

"Thanks," she deadpans. "You're a real charmer, TDMA. I bet this is how you get all the ladies. Charge into them, act like a huge douche, then pretend you're actually a wonderful guy capable of doing a good deed."

Loki frowns. Normally he would not think twice about this strange encounter, but today, this whole case, is anything but normal. "Excuse me?"

"What?"

"TDMA?"

Again, Darcy laughs. At him. He really should kill her. "Tall Dark and Moderately Attractive. Remember? From, like, sixty seconds ago? Try to keep up, Goth Man."

How old is this woman, really? She acts as if she is no more than fifteen.

"Ha. Ha," Loki huffs, ready now to leave the girl and start on his plan. This has gone on long enough. And now that he has made contact with the daughter, he is in even more of a rush. Personal connection, no matter how thin, can ruin a job. Make it impossible to carry it out.

"Hey!" Darcy calls after him. "Where are you going? I think I'm bleeding. You need to take me to the hospital or something!"

Infuriatingly, it takes every ounce of resistance inside of Loki to stop him from turning around and responding to Lewis's daughter. He saw no blood on her earlier. She is fine. He is the one that is screwed up. Now, it seems, in more ways than one.

What is happening with him?

* * *

He has decided she is pretty. Attractive. But purely on a physical level, hence his incapability to think clearly when he caused her to fall and drop her things. It has been a long time, an incredibly long time, since he has found any woman attractive enough to warrant such mindless, bumbling behaviour. Unfortunately, the woman currently turning him into a buffoon is the daughter of his intended target.

He can deal with this, though. He has had to work through worse, like the time he was ordered to take out a potential threat to a very powerful politician while his right arm was broken in three places from his previous job. Attraction is feeble, fickle. He can deal with this.

Loki stares at his reflection in the mirror of the bathroom located inside the coffee shop across the street from Wesley's office as he gives himself this silent pep talk. He notices heavy, purple bags slouched beneath his blue eyes. Wrinkles where before there had been smooth skin. His lips, which are by no means full, seem to dwindle each day until he is sure they will disappear entirely. Running a cold, white hand through his raven coloured hair, Loki turns on the sink and splashes icy water over his face.

He grips the basin tightly until his knuckles crack. It is day five. He has a plan, but it is getting harder and harder to decide how he is meant to carry it out.

Darcy Lewis lives with her father. It is winter break, she is home constantly with him. Her job aligns with his in regards to hours, meaning when they are not working, they are home together. Wesley is a difficult man to get alone. But, Loki has discovered there is a single moment in the day that leaves him enough time to fulfil his task. Each day at exactly two thirty in the afternoon, Wesley Lewis escapes up to the roof of his building. It is only for three minutes so he can keep up his secret smoking habit, but Loki is good with time constrictions. He can make this work. He has to.

Dabbing his face with a paper towel, Loki zips his black jacket and exits the toilet, heading out the back door of the coffee shop. Outside, the air is crisp, but he would hardly call it freezing. He is from London. December in London is hell. It is as if Jack Frost and the clouds and have both decided to join together to make the days as cold as possible. New Mexico's winter washes over Loki pleasantly. He feels almost warm.

After walking mindlessly for a few moments, the ghostly man finds himself at a small park. Children run and play together. Dogs mingle. Parents pretend to watch their kids as they gossip to one another about the news of the world. He hears them all, loathes them and their façades. Do they sense the danger surrounding them? Do they feel in their gut that their children are not safe? Can they smell the gun powder residue sitting permanently on the tips of each of his long, thin fingers?

No. Loki watches them continue to chatter idly about nonsensical things while a murderer sits fifteen feet from the pride and joy of their lives.

 _Pathetic_ , he shouts at them in his mind. _You are all pathetic, hiding behind your money and false sense of security. I could kill you all in a heartbeat without worrying about tainting my soul._

He could, he realises, kill each of them and not feel any sorrow.

When he was younger, his apathy frightened him, but as he has grown it has served him well. If his big brother knew of the thoughts swarming in his mind, of the dreadful crimes he commits without blinking an eye, he would surely have him locked in a psych ward complete with padded walls and electroshock therapy. But he learned his behaviour from their father. While his elder brother has tried his best to push through the negativity surrounding their childhood and come out a better man, Loki took the easy route and sunk deep into his indifference and anger. It makes what he does easier. Clears his pearly white conscience.

"Of course you're a pedophile. Why does that not surprise me?"

Loki startles, whipping his head to the right to find Darcy Lewis sitting beside him on the bench, arms languidly flung over the back. He feels the instinct to reach for his gun pulling desperately at his arm, but he refrains from giving into the sweet temptation, tightening his hands into fists, hoping this act will quell the ache.

Her swollen lips, painted a piercing red, pull into a smile in an apparent response to his rigid manor. "Wow," she breathes, her eyebrows dancing. "You're not even going to deny it?"

Loki grits his teeth. She is beautiful, but it is his job to destroy the pretty things in life. They would make an awful pair.

"Come on," Darcy says jovially, nudging him with her pointer finger the same as she did yesterday. "This is the part where we banter back and forth until you get tired of my unfailing wit and charm and storm off in a blind rage. It'll be like old times."

"Old times?" Loki tilts one eyebrow.

Darcy's eyes widen in gratification. She has gotten the aloof man to open his mouth and is pleased with herself. "Don't you remember our whirlwind romance from yesterday. I'm actually kind of hurt you've forgotten."

"If you're looking for another apology, you won't find it," Loki informs the girl.

"Another apology? Where exactly is the first one?"

Loki cannot be doing this. Playing some back and forth game with the daughter of the man he is plotting to kill. Not only will it mess with his plan, it will inevitably mess with his ability to go through with the assassination. She is toying with his head and it must stop.

"I collected your papers. I helped you off of the ground," he spits.

"Oh, boy, if that's your idea of an apology then I don't know how you've survived this long without getting killed by someone with outrageous anger issues."

Loki often wonders the same thing.

Those in his line of work do often die young. He does not fear the day. In fact, he looks forward to it. This Earth, this life, offers him nothing. The only time he is truly at ease with the universe is when he is watching the life slip from another human being, and that is no way to live.

He contemplates sometimes if, when his time comes to an end, he will see his mother. If she will be the one to guide him into the afterlife.

He would never admit it, but he misses his mother. If she were still alive he likes to think he would have chosen another path. But she escaped this world by her own hand years ago. Loki, though saddened by her absence, is glad she got away when she did, before his father's drinking became too excessive. Before he and Thor then had to fend for themselves.

"I've gathered by now that you're not super into the whole talking thing, but you could at least pretend to acknowledge my existence," Darcy says.

That is the problem, though, isn't it? Loki has acknowledged her existence, and now he is in trouble.

"Look, I'll help you. Hi," she says, thrusting her hand out. She snags his and it happens so fast and there is such a static shock that runs through him when their flesh touches that he doesn't have time to react. Her hand drops his before he can throw her to the ground and put a bullet through that hyper brain of hers, and Loki thinks momentarily that he is happy—maybe not happy, but he is _something_ —about not having to hurt her. "My name is Darcy. It's nice to meet you," she concludes, though he doubts it is actually nice.

He is not nice. Everything about him is hard and cold. Even chipper, sarcastic Darcy should be able to see that.

"This is the part where you tell me your name. I mean, I could call you TDMA for the rest of our long lives, but don't you think it'd be nicer if I actually knew your name?"

"I don't have a name," Loki says frostily.

He is doing his best to appear shut off and distant, but the girl isn't getting the hint. She refuses to leave.

"Either you're lying, or you're just too embarrassed to tell me."

Swiftly, violently, Loki turns to face Darcy, a snarl lifting his lips, a growl positioned perfectly on the tip of his tongue. Wesley Lewis's daughter seems unfazed by the intimidation technique. Her ocean blue eyes are squinting as she searches his pale face.

The contract killer suddenly feels very exposed. Naked, though he is wearing piles of heavy clothes.

He pulls away, unsure of himself, ready to turn the gun hiding in his waistband on himself.

"You don't scare me," Darcy says triumphantly.

Loki cannot help himself. "I should."

"Yeah, well, you don't."

Loki angrily looks back towards the playground. Many of the children have disappeared, their mothers finally having sensed the lingering threat. If only the person sitting so dangerously close to him would pick up on the electric current in the atmosphere.

"So, you gonna give me your name?" Darcy's knee is centimetres away from his. She has pulled her leg up on the bench and twisted her warm body in his direction. "I've got all day, dude."

He, on the other hand, does not. And yet, he cannot stop himself from continuing to sit on the bench, Darcy Lewis's knee resting against his. They are touching through two layers of clothing, but his flesh burns with the contact as if she is made of fire. Pure, searing fire. This terrifies him on a level he cannot yet comprehend. His throat begins to tighten as the new sensation— _burning_ —makes its way from his leg to his neck. He has been touched by fire before, twice, but never has anything felt so hot.

Next to him, Darcy Lewis is oblivious to the outrageous effect their minuscule contact is having on his mind. She is staring at him bravely and blatantly, something he has killed others over.

In an effort to calm himself, Loki gradually separates himself from her, crossing his legs at his ankles. He mentally breathes a sigh of relief as their clothed skin detaches.

"Fine," Darcy sighs. Loki watches out of the corner of his eye as she observes the brown-strapped, expensive watch buckled around her creamy wrist. "You've wasted my lunch break."

He wants to say something, to refute her claim. He did not call her over to him. Did not force her to sit down and attempt to pull sensitive information from him. But he remains silent, turning his attention back to the empty playground.

"I have to get back to work, TDMA," she says, and Loki's belly clenches at her words. The air has suddenly turned stiff.

Darcy stands. Loki cannot stop himself—he turns his head upwards to watch her, their eyes catching, and they hold each other hostage for the briefest, most tantalising moment.

"Try not to scare any children while I'm gone," Darcy says drily.

Turning away from her, Loki rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. He hears her feet retreating, running from him. When he is sure she has walked far enough away he will not spot her, he relaxes back into the bench. Everything is ruined now, he can feel it. Already he is behind on schedule, and now, with this, with _her_ . . .

Loki's gut coils uncomfortably. He has never before felt this level of unease. It turns his stomach and sends his blood running cold through his veins.

He must stop thinking of her. He _must_. Wesley Lewis will die soon. He will stop at nothing until the man is bloodless on the ground.

* * *

 **A/N 2:** Thanks for reading! I really do hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
